


Mark Down Your Bridges To Burn

by pecknxck



Category: A Hat in Time (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Closeted, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Elemental Magic, Emotional, Hurt/Comfort, I'm bad with tags, Implied Transphobia, Implied homophobia, Injury, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Burn, Workplace Relationship, also the fire spirits are implied but WILL show up, conductor not thinking before he talks, technically I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pecknxck/pseuds/pecknxck
Summary: There's something happening behind the scenes in Dead Bird Studios, and both of the directors need to confront the idea of being open about who they really are, and the media fallout that may come with it.
Relationships: The Conductor/DJ Grooves (A Hat in Time)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 113





	1. Pork Soda

There was a dull silence in the taxi as they neared their destination. For this night, and this night only, they were putting everything else behind them. As far as they were concerned, all the in-studio discord ceased to exist, if only just for this fateful date. 

They sat far apart, on opposite sides of the back seat. There was a strange tension; they were both dressed to the nines, though it appeared to the driver that they didn't want anything to do with one another.

And, for all intents and purposes, that's exactly what they wanted him to think. 

Without a word exchanged, they arrived, and the owl handed the cab driver what he owed. The two waited for the car to leave, and for the area to clear of any potential paparazzi, before taking a step closer to each other. These were dangerous days; if anyone knew about what went on after shooting ended, who knows what would happen? 

They'd slept at the other's tens of times, sure, but this is the one night where they could be genuine about it. Tonight, they could drop their stage names, and just go forward as who they really were. Donovan J. Grooves and Stanley T. Conductor.

They both agreed that their chosen names were pretty bare bones. Despite that, it felt nice to hear them being said casually rather than during some sort of in-studio fight. 

Don sighed quietly as he glanced to Stan beside him, adjusting his suit after it'd been ruffled on the way here. "You know, darl-" He cleared his throat. He had to be formal, now. "Stanley," He corrected himself, "you didn't need to break out your good suit for this."

Stanley pressed down his tie with a huff. "It's not that I had to." He ran a hand through his feathers, slicking them back. "It's a special occasion, and I want to dress fittingly."

Don turned back to the restaurant entrance. "...Right." The place was fancy, far from what he was used to. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten out. His glitzy, red, sequined suit was something he used to feel confident in, but now he just felt like a target. As he stood before the doors, staring at the towering building, he swore he could feel eyes staring at him. Watching him.

He felt exposed, like a fish in front of an oncoming trawl net.

Cautiously, he stepped forward, pushing through the doors. In his peripherals, he could see Stan following behind him at a casual pace. Don envied how he could go about this as if he didn't feel like he was surrounded by hawks. He stood around as Stan came through on their reservation, and they were directed to their table.

As they walked over, Don quietly took off his sunglasses and placed them in his coat pocket. Stanley took note of this, though he didn't voice it. He thought it strange to see as flamboyant a bird as DJ Grooves himself seeming so… anxious. It was a curious irony; they’d had quick, thoughtless flings tons of times, yet they still barely actually knew each other. Certainly not enough to ask if one was okay. So, despite his slight concerns, he suppressed them and remained quiet.

As his menu was handed to him, he noticed that what was supposed to be a date was now more of a begrudging business arrangement. This was supposed to be a night they’d spend figuring out what exactly they were to one another, but something about being out and open in such a public place left them unable to speak. Stan gulped. He’d had many a relationship, but never one like this.

Was this even a relationship at all? The thought pried at his mind, and he could feel his feathers pricking. Before he could quickly flatten them back down, Don spoke, his voice noticeably cracking. 

“So, uhm, where do we go from here?” His face was hidden from view by the dinner menu he’d propped up, though his hands were shaking slightly. “Do we just… keep doing this? Spend a night, never speak of it, keep up the rival charades…?”

Stan thought for a moment. “I mean, it’s the easiest route. Though…” He moved his head to see past the menu. “I suspect both you and I are on the same train of thought here.”

Don sighed, lowering his barricade slightly. “I must admit, it would be nice to make a real relationship out of all this, but… the thing I’m worried about is our careers, Stanley. The media would see us together and eat it up. They’d twist the narrative into some weird, warped Dead Bird Studios love story. They’d never leave us alone.”

The owl scoffed. “They already hound us as is.”

“That’s what I’m talking about! As much as it would ease things to stop being so private about this, it… it would make everything else worse.” He twiddled his thumbs, looking down at the table on which his arms now rested. “It all comes down to this, huh? To stay evasive and silent, running between homes for a restless night like prey in the sights of a hunter, or to finally be, well, out.” He shuddered at the word.

Stan looked around, as if he was checking to ensure no one was in earshot, before turning back to the man sitting across from him. “You mean… you’re not?”

Don didn’t meet his gaze. “There’s rumors, and I’m afraid to feed them.”

Stan simply nodded, staring down at the table. “Well, that makes two of us.”  
There was a tense silence for a minute or two. Everything else going on was white noise, and all the two could think about was how the peck they were going to handle this. Run the risk of being open about themselves, or stay quiet? Lock themselves in the closet or confront the home intruder?

Shattering the silence, Stan stood up, putting his dinner menu to the side. “Come on. It’s easier to talk about this somewhere less… crowded.” He moved an arm as if to extend a hand, but stopped himself partway through. Nonetheless, Don stood up, although a bit apprehensively, following as Stan exited the building through the front door. 

As he tried to wave down a cab, the penguin spoke, hushed, as if he was thinking aloud. “Is what we have even really love?” He tensed as Stan turned to him, curious, tilting his head as if prompting him to keep speaking. “All we’ve done is just... “ He awkwardly motioned with his hands. “Intimacy for the sake of having someone, if that makes sense. It’s all just… filling a void. No emotion to it.”

“No, no, it makes sense.” Stan reassured, somewhat dismissively.

“So what do we do about it?”

Stan glanced back to the street as a taxi drove by. “No pecking idea.”

Don flinched. “Then what was that whole dinner for, if you don’t even know how to approach this?”

“You’re the one who’s been fawning over actually trying tae make this work, Grooves.” Stan mumbled. “If anything, you should be the one trying to formulate a plan about this.”

“Me? You’re the one who actually knows how these things work, Conductor!” Don shot back, “I’d appreciate a little help from the only one with actual relationship experience!”

They caught each other's eyes (or lack thereof), and that familiar tension returned. Not a word was exchanged as a taxi pulled up, and they filed in. No longer were they open; the gates to any sort of ease tonight had closed. The Conductor couldn’t help but steal glances at Grooves from the other side of the back seat. He wondered, maybe, if he’d been too callous, too harsh, too blunt. They were both afraid, both didn’t know what to do.

Despite that, though, they both knew they’d have to pretend they did, at least for another night still.


	2. Silver Platters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out that some people would rather bottle things up than speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! wow this blew up quick!! I just wanna say thanks for reading =:3 this is my first real time venturing into writing fic without an established relationship, haha  
> comments r appreciated (also, the chapter names are song titles =;3)

The next work day was incredibly awkward, with last night’s events still fresh in memory. They both took the same commute, though not a word was spoken, still. As they both went into their respective sides of the studio, there was a mutual feeling of strange helplessness. Did the actors always look at them so intently? Were the lights always that bright and blinding?

The Conductor caught himself looking at the other end of the studio more often than usual. Or was it just the normal amount?

Why was he suddenly so… anxious? He could hardly focus on his scripts, and he jumped when an express owl came up behind him, hooting in surprise. As the Conductor tried to smooth down his now fluffed up feathers, the bird spoke. 

"Uh- sir? We're still waiting to receive those scripts-" They gulped when the Conductor slammed his fist down on the arm of the director's chair, making it visibly shake. 

"JUST WORK WITH WHAT YE HAVE! For peck's sake…" He groaned, pinching the bridge of his beak as the owl scurried off, not wanting to invoke his anger further. In his peripheral vision, he could see the actors scrambling to put something together. Crows falling over each other trying to get in place, owls fumbling into costume… it was chaos. 

Well deserved, he thought, seeing as he was the most important thing that needed to be tended to right now, and they were getting in the way. 

With an exasperated huff, he jumped down from his chair and pushed through the crowd of actors to the back door. Being a born and raised desert owl had its perks; namely, mastery over the dirt and sand he'd spent his whole life surrounded by. Grumbling, he sat down on the curb, flicking his hand around and making small rocks collide into each other until they cracked and broke. 

"Stupid pecking Grooves," He hissed under his breath, hand stuttering as he lifted a larger stone into the air. "Emotions this, relationship that. Why can't he just be content with what we have?" He dropped the stone to the ground with a hard thud, before putting his chin in his hands as he continued his vocalized inner monologue.

"We don't need to date, do we? Whatever happened to casual-" He froze when he heard the familiar clack of platforms on concrete. Quickly, he stood, fists clenched hard enough to see his knuckles white through the feathers. 

The ground was rumbling. Grooves was unfazed, however. "Darling, you and I both know we need to sort this out. Properly." He took a step forward, and the Conductor took one back. Grooves paused, chuckling to himself.

The Conductor scoffed, and he could hear the ground beneath him beginning to crack. "What's so funny, pellet breath?" 

Grooves noticed the owl's twitching, presumably in rage. "It's just funny," He reached for his sunglasses, slowly taking them off. His eyes, two shades of chestnut, were piercing. "how badly you're hiding your real thoughts on this."

The Conductor snapped, pointing accusingly at the taller man before him. "YOU'RE the one who brought all of this upon me, Grooves! If it weren't for yer sappy bull last night, we wouldnae be having this conversation at all!" 

"It's called being genuine, darling, and I thought that's something you would have valued." 

"How- how can you suddenly be so calm about this?!”

“How were you?” Grooves shot back, his voice flat. He turned away, before stopping and rearing his head, sly as he spoke. “When your whole career is pandering, darling, I suppose you eventually learn to cut yourself off, hm?”

The Conductor was silently fuming. How ironic was this; the day before, Grooves was the one being a wreck about this simple question, and now the panic had rubbed off on the owl. He snarled. “You certainly haven’t, peck neck.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at us, you buffoon! We’re trying to make a fire out of ashes here! What about that says that either of us are-”

“So you admit it? You do want to take this further?”

“I. Never. Said that.” The Conductor stood his ground, which now had small stalagmites sticking out from the cracks in the earth. “All I’m saying, since ye apparently can’t wrap your head around it, is that whether we want it or not, both of us are too involved to just cut ourselves off.”

Grooves slowly nodded as the owl continued, staring at the ground. 

“Look. Maybe, just maybe, this could work as a…” He coughed, as if the word was vile on his tongue. “relationship. Maybe. But both you and I know that neither of us can find out, at least not now.”

Grooves folded his arms, turning to face him. “Maybe it’s best, darling.” He moved forwards, and this time, the Conductor didn’t back away. He just sighed quietly, glancing to the side.

“It feels like we’ve been running in circles.” The stout Conductor muttered. “We haven’t got anywhere, have we? All we’ve done is just…” He moved his head out of the way as Grooves tried to tilt his chin up. “We’ve just been covering ourselves. It feels like a bad film, hah…” He chuckled weakly, his voice cracking.

“We don’t have to make any decisions right-” Grooves tried to reassure him, but the Conductor interrupted.

“I know, I know. Can we just…” He awkwardly scratched the back of his head, involuntarily plucking a few feathers. “forget this happened? All of this?” 

Reluctantly, the penguin nodded. “I… suppose.”

There was a quiet, amicable silence for a while. They’d undone all of last night’s progress, now, and things were back to the way they thought they wanted it to stay; nothing further than casual relations out of the simple need to feel loved.

That is, if there was any love in it at all. The answer to that question still evaded them by quite a while. There was obvious attraction, of course, but neither of them could decode if there was more to it. 

Grooves couldn’t help but ponder this as he sat alone, at home, after getting back from work. Nothing ventured nothing gained, he supposed, cracking open yet another beer as he slouched on the couch. That rhymed, he thought absently. Glancing around for something to distract himself with, he noticed his phone was on, a notification on-screen.

Yet another missed call from some family member. Groaning, he flipped it over, ignoring it as he stared at the ceiling. He’d learned by now that if those close to him didn’t want anything to do with him after learning his true colors, society wouldn’t either. He’d grown used to it, honestly. Being the underdog had kinda become his thing.

Sipping his beverage, he thought back to his actors. Sure, they weren’t the best at work, but they were the only real family he had. He hadn’t hung out with them in a while, and he wondered how they were doing.

He wondered how the Conductor was doing. 

Wait, no, that’s not supposed to happen. This was supposed to be casual. No ‘yearning’ or ‘pining’ or whatever. Nothing but bare bones attraction, was what it was supposed to be.

At least… that’s what it was supposed to be. 

He sat up proper on the couch, putting the can aside and resting his chin in his hands. Did he love him? Was he even allowed to? He knew the Conductor’s history; he had family, children, grandchildren, and enough divorced wives to make a running gag out of. He felt like he was overstepping some sort of unspoken boundary by even touching him, by uttering his real name.

Though, it was a very pretty name, he had to admit. Stanley… simple and classic, yet so much could be gathered about him from that name alone. He’d chosen it himself, after a famous director. Expected, for an ego like his. So much about him was truly iconic; the jagged beak, his rough, plentiful feathers, the way the scent of the iron he worked with clung to him- 

Grooves covered his eyes with his hands. There he went again. He wasn’t allowed to think like this about such a famous bird. He wasn’t supposed to. Normal people don’t think the way he does, not about another man. Definitely not.

Quietly, Grooves gasped. He was spiraling again, he realized, and he needed to find a distraction. Shakily, he stood, picking up the beer in the same movement before gulping it down. He just stayed there for a moment, thinking, before his gaze drifted to the face down phone on the floor. As far as he knew, his penguins were out for their weekly club night. Couldn’t contact any of them, the ringing of a phone would get lost in the noise. He picked the device up and scrolled through the contacts. Sure, none of his usual buds were available tonight, but he knew someone was. Someone as sad and confused as him, someone he could drown his tears in.

Stanley Tchaikovsky Conductor.


	3. You Don't Know How Lucky You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you can learn a lot from one who at first seems no more than a bedfellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 160 hits holy shit. comments appreciated as always

The dull thud of molten metal being clunked against an anvil was all he'd heard for the last two hours. Blacksmithing was something he'd taken up in his old age; kept him young, and it gave him a craft to master in his spare time. As much as he loved the job, being a train conductor wasn't always interesting. 

He wiped his brow, about to strike the iron while it was hot before he heard a knock at the door. Annoyed, he barked. "PECK OFF!" 

He raised his arm again, hammer in hand, before there was another knock. Groaning, he put it down, before walking to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming…" He mumbled, unlocking and opening it, only to be met with Grooves. 

He moved to close it, before the other man caught the door with a hand. The owl hissed lowly. "Not tonight. I have work to do."

Grooves rolled his eyes. "It's not- I'm not here for that." He stuttered, sighing. "Look, we… I need to talk."

"About what, Donovan?" 

Well, guess they were on a first name basis, tonight. Don gulped. "It's not about the relationship, this time. It's about… you know."

"I don't." Stan said flatly.

"It's about- uhm… the whole… being out thing."

Stan stood there, thinking for a moment, before he opened the door, letting the penguin in. Don sighed in relief, until he took note of the owl's lack of shirt. That certainly didn't help, and neither did the plentiful family photos. 

Again, he felt like he was an invader in Stanley's perfect life.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the hard sound of metal on metal as Stan resumed his work. Curiously, he padded over. "What're you making, darling?"

Stan didn't even spare him a glance. "That's not yours to call me, peck neck."

"...Ah." Don turned away, hands in his pockets. 

Stan paused, if only for a moment. "...Sorry." He muttered. "It's late, an' I'm not thinking right."

Don looked back at him. "You're not the only one." 

"What's biting at ye tonight?" Stan inquired, continuing to mold the iron he was working with into a point. 

Don leaned against the closest wall to the anvil, watching intently. "Forgive me if this is a stupid question, but…" He cringed. "Is this normal? I mean, this… attraction we have between each other."

Stan didn't respond. As much as he wanted to ignore it, he was asking himself the same question. He'd asked it for the last twenty or so years. 

Don took his silence as a prompt to keep talking. "I know deep down that it really is, but… I still… It still feels wrong, somehow." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Especially when you have all the family."

Stan's feathers pricked to attention. "Is that what it is?"

Don flinched. "What?"

Stan rested his tools on the anvil, putting the metal down and removing his gloves. "You weren't worried about the paparazzi or anything, were ye? You were worried that you'd tarnish that?"

The other man took notice of his putting everything aside. Despite his encroaching worries of what would happen next, he explained. "Well- that's part of it, at least. You have all these kids, all these-" He coughed. "past wives… minus those divorces, it's all nuclear family. I don't want to ruin it for you."

Stan just remained still for a moment, pondering his response. "Funny."

Don tilted his head, confused, and Stan just chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "I would've thought you'd be the first in line to break standards."

"There's breaking new ground, then there's destroying a man's life." 

"Who said ye were destroying anything?"

Don didn't have an answer for that. He sighed wordlessly and softly, turning his head away yet again. Stan gently gripped the other's beak between his index and thumb. "I thought you said you had work to do." Don said quietly.

Stan shrugged lightly. "Work is something I can come back to. You, on the other hand, cannae keep up a consistent schedule to save yer life."

Don held him by the waist as he was cornered against the wall; somewhat of a feat, given how truly short Stanley was. "You know that kissing me won't make all this go away, right?"

"Trust me, I know." Stan whispered.

They kissed.

The rest of the already spent night was a blur. All Stanley knew was that there was someone else in his bed, and that he had a strange warmth in his chest. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his feathers as he looked to the clock on his bedside table. Nine in the morning, on a Saturday. 

Good, he didn't have to go to work today. More time for his thoughts to eat him up. 

He stood, walking over to the closet and throwing on a pair of pajamas; they were yellow, with train print. As he buttoned up the front, he could see the other man, still fast asleep, in his peripherals.

Absently, he wondered what his mother would think. What his siblings would think. 

So much for being the family success, he thought. Most of his family already didn't like him too much, aside from a brother or two. 

He sighed as he left the shirt partially unbuttoned, the two scars on his chest now visible.

Peck that family, he does what he wants.

Satisfied with his appearance, he glanced to the other occupant of his bed once more, his gaze lingering on the way his slick feathers glistened in the desert sunlight. His hair was messy, yet still handsome, even with the bed head.

He paused. He shouldn't be thinking like that. No, no, it was just a professional relationship. They kept each other stable, nothing more.

He wondered if he wanted more.

Stan shook the thoughts away as he exited the room to fix himself some breakfast. Nothing makes a tired old man feel better than meat. Being an owl, he had a bag of frozen rodents in the fridge. Assorted; it was the cheapest he could find at the supermarket, and he wasn't about to pay more than thirteen dollars for rats.

He popped about three out of them out of the package, sticking them in the microwave.   
The owl looked around the kitchen, rapping his claws on the counter. The timer was set to about three minutes. Three minutes of thinking as the hot sun beat on his golden feathers. Glancing outside, he wished he could be there. He’d tampered with the idea of building a greenhouse, or a shed, or something out there.

He always did like the texture of sandstone. It’d be easy, too; maybe he could make a playhouse for the grandkids. Nothing too big, just somewhere for them to roam about. God knows that he wanted something similar when he was just a chick. It would have saved him the wrath of his parents, if he’d just learned to stay out of their way for once. 

He should have heeded all their warnings, he thought, as he winced, remembering the faint scars and bruises he still had beneath his feathers. Even before they knew about the less… traditional qualities he possessed, they were never particularly gentle with him. Still, it made him cringe to call it anything short of just discipline, even though he knew better. 

There was a thought nipping at the back of his mind. Would they still reprimand him so, if they knew all this was going on? Everything with Donovan, everything about his less-than-perfect life. He must have been a horrible kid to deserve those hits, right? As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t changed.   
Maybe he would deserve it now, too.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ding of the microwave. Food was ready. He took the rodents out, and, despite them being cold in the middle, he was about to just eat them whole, when he heard a shuffling.

There stood Don, getting an eyeful of Stan, with three dead rats hanging out of his open mouth. Quickly, the penguin turned his head away, trying to stifle laughter as he headed for the front door.

Choking down the food, Stan hurried to speak. "Where're ye going?"

"Out? I'm assuming you don't want me hanging around." Don said matter-of-factly, pulling on his coat.

"I don't mind- hey, wait, is that my shirt?" Stan asked, as Don turned to face him, revealing that it was, in fact, not his shirt. It didn’t look like any of his shirts. Why did he say that? Coughing into his arm, he apologized through the muffle of his feathers. “Nevermind.”

Don noted that this was rather out of character. Usually, he’d just leave without a word the next morning. Interesting. “I’m surprised you want me to stay.”

“It’s lonely here, is all.” Stan huffed. “Help yerself to the fridge. Can’t guarantee anything in there is gonna fit your tastes.”

Don looked like he was about to make a joke, but something stopped him. Stan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his face fall so quickly. 

Why did he feel like he wanted to fix that? To make him happy?

After a while of silence as Don prepared himself some food, he spoke. “So, what is it you do for fun around here?” He glanced over to the owl leaning on the counter as he rummaged for a plate. 

Stan shrugged, turning to the forge he’d set up in a nearby room. “Metalwork, usually. Keeps me preoccupied.”

“Is that so?” Don paused his plate hunt, looking to Stan. “You know, you never did tell me what you were making.”

Stan’s feathers pricked. “Oh, uh… do you really want to see?”

For a moment, there was quiet, as Don seemingly just took in the glee on Stan’s face in response to someone taking interest in his work. “Of course.” He smiled.

He smiled. Outside of the studio. At his ‘rival’. 

This was all Stan could process as he lead the other bird over to the anvil on which the iron had been placed. He'd kissed that beak thousands of times with no thought. He rarely, if ever, saw him smile when he wasn't putting on a persona for the cameras.

He didn't even realize that he was smiling himself.

Don watched as he picked up the metal, examining it in his claws. Stan was smiling widely as he rambled. "I make my own knives, so I don't have to buy them. Takes work, but they come out well. I have a quarry in the back, even." He glanced up from the blade tentatively. "...Do ye wanna see that, too?"

Don just nodded, his expression soft. "I'd love to." 

Again, yet another pause. It felt like they were frozen in time, here in this moment. This unseen, new intimacy blooming between them, if only for a split second. Here they were, Don leaning on the anvil as Stan was turned towards an exit, still facing the other with full attention. They both looked at each other with a look of unacknowledged trust; soft, warm in the desert glow. 

Unknown to the other, they both yearned to go back. Back to hours before, where they were simply in each other's arms, and that was all that mattered. All that ever mattered. Both just wanted to peel back the layers of fear and repression, and simply just be. No media, no lurking family matters.

Was this what love felt like?

Maybe it was, they wondered, as they headed out of the old home into the quarry behind it. And maybe, just maybe, they wanted to find out.


	4. House In Virginia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine being gay. Couldn't be Don.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AND WAS SO SHORT. I got quarantine burnout pensive emoji  
> the next chapter will be a fun flashback as a change of pace =:3 and you might get to see some of grooves' abilities =;3

Perhaps, maybe, Don was overthinking all this, he thought as he gazed into the pit of sandstone, clay and cavern systems that was the quarry. Though the area was impressive on its own, he couldn't help but to steal glances at Stan.

Did his feathers always glow like that in the sunlight? He'd never made it a point to visit the desert. He was broken from his thoughts as the owl began to speak. 

"Ah. Have ye seen anything more beautiful than this?" Stan grinned, hands on his hips as he proudly looked over what must have been years of work. Don had seen something more gorgeous, though he couldn't possibly say. So, he just remained silent.

The quarry itself was a huge sunken pit, the walls reinforced with stacked rock to prevent it from caving. There were various mounds of what was presumably some ore (or just more stone) littering the ground. Surrounding those nodules of rock were giant, cavernous holes. Stan jumped down into the quarry, motioning for Don to follow, which he did.

Vaguely, this reminded the penguin of home. He wondered if they still carved areas out of craters anymore. 

Then he realised that Stan wasn't in front of him anymore. 

Snapping back to reality, he looked around for any sign of the other, his heart pounding in his chest as his mind raced. Where was he? Did he just leave? Was all this just a practical joke, played on Don to get him to atone for his years of worthlessness-

"Ye coming?" 

Don turned his head so quick that one wouldn't be wrong to think it gave him whiplash. "Oh, uhm," He stuttered. "I just lost sight of where you were." Why was he so concerned? Why was he so afraid that Stan up and left?

"Don't worry, it's not that far a fall." Stan reassured as Don looked into the cavern that the owl was hanging on the edge of. "A lot easier to navigate when ye know the sand better than your own family." He joked, and Don couldn't help but laugh as he calmed down.

"Easy to navigate a studio when you know the camera better than your own family." Don added, and they both chuckled. Slowly, the two climbed into the cavern, armed with nothing but their own two hands.

...and whatever weird earth bending abilities Stan possessed.

Don wondered where he got them from. Was it a species thing? Could all owls just… do that? Was it like his own uncanny strength to bend electricity to his will? So many questions, yet he didn't know how to ask. How could he possibly inquire anything when he barely knew the guy? What was he in relation to Stan? A friend? Coworker? Rival? Partner?

No, no, of course not. Definitely not a partner, Stanley was too good for that. Too successful, too handsome, too well-loved. He wouldn't risk all that for the studio underdog, now would he?  
Though… what else could explain last night? And all those nights spent together in the past? Was it really just simple chemical attraction?

As his feet hit the bottom of the cavern, he was awestruck at the extended holes jutting from every wall, digging ever further into the earth. Bewildered, he turned his gaze to Stan. "You did all this yourself?" 

Stan shook his head. "Not just me. The kids and such pitched in, too. Decades in the making." He proudly stood before the many pathways. "Pick a tunnel and start walking, peck neck."

Don flinched, looking around before he began walking down the east most tunnel. Stan grabbed one of many lanterns set up by the entrance and subsequently followed, making small talk as he tried to match the penguin's steps. "You've never been underground, have ye?" 

Don shook his head, not turning to face him as he spoke. "The moon doesn't exactly have caves."

"Really?" Stan asked, somewhat surprised. "With all those craters, ye haven't made anything of them?"

"You're talking like I'm the only moon penguin to ever exist." Don chuckled, running his hand along the wall as he walked.

In Stan's mind, he kinda was. He fell quiet, giving Don an opportunity to ask a very important question. 

"Why didn't you want me to leave earlier? Why did you offer to show me all of this?" He glanced back, and Stan avoided his gaze.

"I thought you'd like to see it, is all." Stan's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

Don stopped walking. "Something tells me that's not the only reason, Stanley."

Stan sighed. "You and I both know I can't say."

"We're at least 20 meters underground. It's not like anyone can hear." He leaned against the wall.

"First off, we're nowhere near that far down, peck neck." He huffed, still not looking him in the eyes. "Second of all…" He tensed. "It's something I don't want to process right this minute."

"You'll have to eventually, you know."

"I know, I know, alright?" Stan grumbled, continuing down the hall as Don followed at a brief walking pace. 

"You know," Don glanced around the hall, running a hand along the clay and sandstone. "You didn't answer my first question."

"I told you. I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you not want to, or are you scared to?"

"Yer walking in quicksand, Donovan." His voice had a harsh growl to it. "I recommend ye stop digging your own grave here."

"Alright, alright, I'll lay off. But…" Don put a hand on Stan's shoulder, causing him to pause. "Promise me that you're not going to just bottle all of this up again."

Stan shook his hand off his shoulder. "You're in no position to ask me to promise things like that." 

"Fair, fair…" Don muttered, and Stan seemed suspicious of him.

"You're awfully out of character today." He mentioned.

Don made some vague hand motions, holding his head. "Had a few drinks before I got to yours last night. That, and everything else, probably has my brain a bit wonky."

Stan nodded in understanding, as they reached a fork in the hall, upon reaching which they turned right. 

The clay and sandstone was beginning to become stone and igneous rock, littered with holes and grooves from a mix of what was most likely pressure and millions of years of water wearing against it. The heat was rising as they walked, and steam could be faintly seen in the air. 

Don wiped his brow; penguins were optimized for insulation, given how cold the moon was. Heat wasn't fun when it wasn't wanted. "Where does this even lead?" 

Stan answered quickly, as if he was prepared for that exact question. "Hot spring. Great on the old bones." 

"A- a what?" Don asked, tilting his head. "Spring?"

"Yer telling me you don't know what a spring is?"

"Well, no, as I said-"

"Yeah, yeah. It's a place where water naturally flows into a pool, sometimes heated." He smirked. "Neat, eh, lad?"

Don just nodded, in wonder. Penguins weren't exactly equipped for water, and he could count on one flipper how many times he'd been in the stuff within the last decade. He thought about what the spring would look like; the glistening, steaming water, the beautiful rock formations surrounding it…

He'd dip his feet in, let himself adjust to the scalding water as he caught a glance of something. There, the one thing he knew he wasn't allowed to truly experience or hold. 

Stanley, feathers practically glowing as he shook himself dry, sitting on the edge of the pool, right next to Don. They'd chat, laugh, splash each other with the water, lean in, and-

"Oi, anyone home in there?" Stan called back, breaking Don from his daydreaming as he realized he'd stopped. He ran ahead to catch up, silently apologizing.

He wasn't allowed to think like that. 

The walk was quiet for a while, until Stanley suddenly stopped in his tracks, lifting a foot to note the weakness of the ground beneath him. He turned to the wall, running a hand along. Rocks crunched and fell out as he did so, and he could hear the ceiling above him crumbling as the walls supporting it started to cave. 

He was about to yell for Don to tread lightly, when he heard him running.

Running, flipper against ground, before the overwhelming rumbling of the whole hall collapsing, and the hard thud of two men hitting the ground far, far below the cavernous hole that replaced where they once stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments always appreciated


	5. You Look Like I Need A Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't always like this, but a single night changed everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY IMPORTANT BEFORE YOU READ THIS CHAPTER.  
> THERE IS IMPLIED HOMOPHOBIA AND TRANSPHOBIA, AND THERE IS ABUSE REFERENCED. IF YOU CAN'T READ IT DUE TO THESE BEING TRIGGERING THERE WILL BE A SUMMARY NOTE AT THE END! STAY SAFE!  
> also finally breached 10k words *whips*

Fourty years ago, give or take, things were different. Early adulthood creates a certain bubble in which nothing really matters. Both were well on their way to directing as a career, but they still had things to do in the off time from their studies.

Namely, making money. Grooves elected to do this through music. Going under his last name, he and a few other birds had formed an eclectic band. Way back when, the Conductor would show up to most of his gigs, and they had some chemistry going.

Way back when, before they were forced to bury it under piles of repression.

Grooves sat on the edge of the stage, tinkering around with his cheap, old keytar, making idle small talk with the Conductor, who stood right by him. "So, as expected, Sheila split up with me." He recounted, and Grooves snickered.

"That's what you get for trying to pick up girls at a highschool reunion, darling." He unscrewed the back of the instrument to get at the wiring inside. 

"Oh, well peck you too." The owl said sarcastically, slumping as he leaned against the stage. "We had a good thing going! She just… wasn't as into me as I thought."

"Seems like no one ever is." Grooves rolled his eyes, testing the keys. "Did she know?"

"Know what? That I'm a man? I'm… pretty sure." The Conductor scratched his head, feathers slicked back in typical punk fashion. Tonight, he wore a baggy denim vest atop a baggier band tee shirt, with expensive Tripp pants and cheap thrift shoes. The epitome of not having your life together.

Grooves had his hair back in dreads, with various, multicolored beads woven in. He donned his father's black leather jacket, a striking red tank, ripped jeans and some familiar platforms. He glanced at the Conductor as he worked, worried. "Pretty sure? Darling…"

"Anyways- ANYWAYS!" The Conductor flapped his hands, trying to change the topic. Quietly, he sighed. "Mind if I crash at yours again? They locked me out of the house again until I…" He groaned, and Grooves put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Until I brought their daughter back."

Grooves frowned. "That's… that's horrible, darling. Do you have any of your belongings?"

The Conductor shook his head as he lifted himself onto the stage. "Nothing but the clothes on my back."

They shared a look of desperation for a brief moment, before the Conductor abruptly hugged Grooves tightly. The penguin sighed, patting his back as he accepted the hug. "You'll be alright, St-" He cleared his throat, not knowing if this was exactly a safe place to name him. "You'll be alright, darling, promise." He rephrased, running his hand through the other's feathers. 

"Doesn't feel like it." The owl mumbled. 

"I know, but… at least we have each other, right?" 

The Conductor shrugged, sitting up a bit. Grooves gently held his chin. The Conductor rolled his head to the side, looking away. "I'm still banned from your mini-fridge."

Grooves erupted into laughter. "That's because you eat everything in a five kilometer radius!" 

"Not my fault that testosterone makes me hungry!" The Conductor cackled. 

"Does that also explain why there isn't a drop of whiskey in there, too?"

"Yes, actually." He tried to stifle his own laughter. "You see, I need to balance my pH levels-" 

"Do not!"

"Do so!"

Both birds laughed hysterically, with Grooves shaking his head as he continued to tamper with the keytar. "We haven't been able to find too many high-paying jobs recently, so don't expect my place to be too cushy."

"What's in the set tonight?" The Conductor asked, standing up and just looking around the stage.

Grooves let a few sparks fly into the instrument, static rippling through his hair. This was why he kept it tied down. "Not much you haven't seen, darling; just some Elton Swan, whatever's in the top twenty this week… that's about it." He shrugged. 

"You should try making some originals. With yer experience, it shouldn't be too hard, right?" The Conductor suggested, as people started to pour in to the bar where they'd set up. 

"Music isn't like that. It's not something you can just take charge of, darling." Grooves screwed the backplate into its proper place on the keytar, before standing up and slinging it across his broad chest. "Now, would you mind ordering a round for the crew and I?"

The Conductor nodded. "Of course. I'll cover the cost."

Grooves flinched, embarrassed. "Ah, darling, you know you don't have to-"

"I'm sleeping with you tonight. Least I can do."

"You… you mean sleeping at my house, right?" Grooves corrected. "Is the alcohol getting to you already?" He was flustering, now. 

The Conductor hopped off the stage, looking back with a smirk. "It's called flirting, peck neck. You could learn some from me." If he had eyes, he would have walked off with a wink.

Way back when, they were allowed to express.

Grooves quickly composed himself, calling over to the owl as he walked towards the bar. "SEE YOU AFTER THE SET!"

The Conductor gave him a thumbs up.

Propping himself up on a barstool, he leaned against the counter, nursing a drink as he watched the penguin play. Sure, maybe he was a bit woozy, and might not even remember this, but it was nice. 

He watched as electricity rippled through the air as Grooves sang, his voice deep and gentle. Each word was impactful, to the point where he could still be heard over the roaring crowd of rowdy bar goers. 

He watched, as his hands drifted across the keytar as if it was all he knew. Sparks flew across its blindingly white keys, with unmatched accuracy to the piece he was playing.

And then, seemingly as soon as it began, the music was over, and the Conductor's bottle was still half full. He swished the liquid around in its container as Grooves approached, a stupid smile on his face. 

The bartender slid the band a few shots, though Grooves didn't immediately retrieve his. "Well? Did it sound alright?"

"It sounded great." He assured, sipping the now lukewarm alcohol he held in his hand. "Especially the vocals. The voice training is paying off, definitely." 

Grooves handed him a shot. "You can have mine; I'm driving."

"Awh, I don't get tae hear your drunken poetry tonight?" The Conductor snickered, downing the drinks and hopping off the stool with a slight sway. 

Grooves just rolled his eyes with a chuckle as he led the owl to his beat up old car. They filed in, and the Conductor stared out the window at the stars above while the other got the vehicle started. He made trips to the moon every so often for a variety of reasons; catching a show, to get away from life for a bit, or to simply watch the stars. 

"I'm guessing that you haven't gotten that apartment yet, eh?" The Conductor glanced back to Grooves as the car rolled in the direction of his family home.

"Not yet, still scraping up the cash." Grooves explained. "Still living with the folks, sadly."

"I'm assuming they're not home tonight?" The Conductor slumped in his seat with a yawn. 

Grooves shook his head. "They're out, and I don't think they're coming back for a few days." He looked over to the bird beside him. "Plenty of time to wait out that inevitable hangover, darling."

"Shut up," The Conductor groaned, his voice slurring a bit. "I can hold my liquor better than you ever will." 

"I'll believe it when it happens." 

The lights of the empty street were warm, occasionally bothering to illuminate the interior of the car. The product that the Conductor had used to slick back his feathers shimmered in the rays, and the beads woven intricately into Grooves' dreadlocks glimmered, as the wave of light shone over them. 

The Conductor sighed contentedly, leaning on Grooves' shoulder, tired. "Th' lights're… pretty, huh?" 

"You look and sound exhausted, darling." Grooves chuckled lightly, relaxing as he pulled into the driveway of his parents' house; he wasn't exactly jumping to call it a home. "Come on, let's get you to sleep."

The Conductor groaned as he sat up, before moving to get out of the car, and nearly falling on his face. "I'm not that tired… still got some energy in me bones." The owl insisted, and Grooves just shook his head.

"Stanley, you're drunk." He snickered, helping him stand up proper by slinging the other's arm over his shoulder and lightly holding his side. 

Stan didn't immediately start walking as he was guided. Despite the lack of eyes, there was a clear, split-second splash of dread across his expression. He tensed. "Keep yer pecking voice down, Donnie." He hissed quietly, yet Don remained unphased.

"It's the dead of night, darling. It's not like anyone can hear." The penguin reassured, but Stan just grumbled to himself as he was led into the building. 

The place itself wasn't too shabby, though it had a distinct air about it that couldn't help but make one feel othered. It was a bit too homey; like walking into someone else's room while they're not there. It was oppressive, near overwhelming, and Stan couldn't help but feel he was overstepping, somehow.

Even in his drunken state, he knew the fear of not knowing if he was really safe. He'd been here tons of times, but it still felt like somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. 

Flopping down on the couch, he reached for a remote to channel surf while Don went to grab him a blanket and pillow. The couch was stiff with age, not at all comfortable, but it was what was available. One would think that the moon, being a hubbub of glamorous film, music and television, would have plenty of variety in what was aired. Alas, it was the same as always.

Soap opera, rerun of a sitcom, rerun of another sitcom… Stan decided to leave it as background noise. Behind the television was a wall of photos. Most were of nameless people that he only understood as Don's family, yet one stood out.

One face that he couldn't recognize, one that he didn't want to recognize. He knew that Don's family wasn't exactly great, but this was just cruel. 

He then promptly got a pillow and blanket dropped on him. Reflexively, he threw them back, only to hear quiet laughter. "Darling, it's just me." Don smiled a little.

Stan flinched, sighing. "Sorry, just… on edge." He glanced back to the photos again. He wasn't one to pry, however. 

Don tilted his head. "I told you, darling. No one's going to be here for days. You'll be alright, I promise you."

Something about that didn't sound right, but Stan marked it up to the alcohol. He simply nodded and took the blanket and pillow, noting how soft they were. They must've been taken from one of the bedrooms. 

Don waved goodnight as he headed back to his own room, turning all the lights off and leaving Stan in the darkness, save for the glow of the television, which he soon turned off.

So, he lay there. Tossing and turning for an ounce of comfort as the walls around him buzzed with electricity, and he could hear everything happening outside. Lunar plants swaying, people walking up and down the sidewalk.

He could hear the cars zooming by, the idle chatter of passersby. He pulled the blanket over himself, trying to drown it out, when that familiar dread washed over him.

What was it? He knew he was safe, that both him and Don weren't in danger, but something, something pried at him like a shovel in cracked, dry ground. Something was wrong. He couldn't help but to feel as if the photos on the wall were staring at him, judging him, closing in on him. Well, all but the one he wouldn't dare name.

Stanley was not a paranoid drunk. This didn't just come from nowhere, but where could it have come from otherwise? Why was he suddenly so afraid? He wasn't supposed to be, no, his parents taught him that years upon years ago. 

Fear means weakness, and no child of theirs would be known as a weakling. 

Shakily, he stood, breath shallow as he wrapped the blanket around himself. No, no, he couldn't be weak. He was an independent young man, now. He had to take charge of his life. Say what needed to be said, do what needed to be done.

His breath hitched in his throat as he dragged his feet over to Don's room, and it was too late when he noticed the tears streaming down his face. Though he'd no eyes, he was still cursed with the shameful ability to cry.

Way back when, he hadn't formed that prickly, tough shell. 

He slowly opened the door, apparently loud enough to wake the other man up. Don turned on the lamp by his bedside table and rubbed his eyes as he sat up. "Stanley…?" He yawned, "Why are you-"

He was cut off by the owl's voice, high pitched, cracking, stressed. "I couldn't sleep." Though a simple answer, he said it as if it was some sort of confession.

Don quickly adjusted himself as he realized the weight of the situation. "Oh." He looked around, as if trying to figure out what to do. He'd never been faced with Stan in such a vulnerable state, at least not that he could remember.

"Do you mind if I sleep in here?" Stan asked, still looking like a sparrow about to bolt. 

"No, no, not at all." Don pulled back the cover a bit, and Stan quickly shuffled in, still with the other blanket wrapped around him. Sure, he'd probably end up overheating, but that wasn't what he was worried about.

There was an odd tension as soon as the light went off. Don was trying to get back to sleep, and Stan was on the complete opposite side, back facing him. As much as the penguin tried to reassure the other that they were at no risk of getting found out, he was beginning to doubt himself.

His sleep had been evading him, too. Sure, sure, his parents said they'd be back in three days. But what if he remembered wrong? What if they came back earlier than he thought? He couldn't just tell Stanley that he had no idea if they were truly safe here. He'd get upset, he'd leave, he'd end up sleeping in the back of the band's van again, all because of Don.

With a heavy sigh, he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. This got Stan's attention, and he slowly turned himself to face him. "Are… are ye okay?" He asked, his voice having now somewhat returned to a less frightened state.

Don shrugged. "I don't know. There's just… too much happening right now. I can't get my mind off any of it."

Stan nodded in understanding. "I feel like that right now, too." He mumbled, worming a bit closer. 

Don chuckled dryly. "Ironic, how such a fun night turns into this. Staring at the ceiling and wishing we weren't here." 

Another nod from Stan, who again moved a bit closer. Don, realizing what he was doing, smiled, if only barely. "It's cold on that side, huh, darling?"

"You need tae invest in a heater." Stan joked weakly, as Don pulled him into his embrace.

"I'll do it once I get that apartment." He hummed, burying his beak in the other's feathers. 

Stan only smirked, relaxing into his arms. There, holding each other on a cold moon night, they finally managed to find the rest they were yearning for.

They definitely needed it, given what would occur the very next morning. 

Don woke up first, smiling contentedly when he realized that he wasn't alone, and that Stan was still clinging to him. He then noticed shadows looming over his bedside, and he looked up only to find that he'd been greeted by his worst nightmare.

His parents were home early. His father had his arms folded, looking down at him in disappointment. His mother was crying into his father's shoulder. Don's eyes widened as he hurried to explain, but he couldn't get a word out, not under the piercing gaze of his father. 

"Get out," His father hissed. "You're no child of mine. First that horrible mutilation of your body, then this?" He shook his head. "Sleeping with another woman… how could you do this to us, Da-"

Don quickly shot back. "That's not my name."

He subsequently got a meaty hit to the face for that remark. "Yes, it is." His father insisted, before pointing to the front door. "Leave, lest you embarrass this family further."

Don tried to argue, but it was as if he couldn't speak at all. "Now. And take your… friend with you." His father growled, as Don reluctantly did as he asked.

They didn't let him take anything, aside from what he already had on. Sleeping in this entire getup was uncomfortable, but it paid off, he supposed as he had a shoe thrown at him by his mother for getting in his car. He still held Stan under an arm, and he was still fast asleep.

The part of his face where he'd been hit still felt raw and throbbing with heat, but he ignored it. If it weren't for stupid Stanley and his stupid not booking a hotel or something, he wouldn't have gotten kicked out. If it weren't for his stupid crocodile tears, his stupid, stupid tears, his parents wouldn't have assumed they were a thing.

He put the gas pedal to the floor as his battered, old car sped through the streets. This is what he got. This was what he deserved for being such a freak. He didn't deserve to keep his family, to keep his home, to keep anything. 

Like his father said, he was an embarrassment. Nothing more than a burden, someone that anyone would be ashamed of knowing. He was broken, and he couldn't be fixed.

He was never supposed to feel the ways he did last night. He'd never allow himself to, ever again. He can't make this worse, and if he did, it was his own fault. He looked in the rearview at the sleeping man in the back seat.

The cause of all his problems, it seemed. Stupid pecking Stanley. Choking his sobs, he continued driving towards the bar where he'd played the night before, the night it all fell apart. He definitely wasn't thinking straight. He never had, really, but he wouldn't admit that. He'd lost his life to that fatal mistake, and he wouldn't make it again. 

Through his clouded, angry, and terrified thoughts, he made it to the bar, which wasn't open yet. Of course it wasn't, why did he think it would be? It was early in the morning, and he was just making everything worse for himself.

He threw the driver's side door open with a loud slam, and he got out of the car, approaching the building's doors. He pushed through them, only to expectedly find that the place was completely dead and dark. Perfect. 

He opened one of the backseat doors, pulling Stan out as he dragged the owl inside, grumbling incessantly to himself. Stupid Stanley would get what he deserved for ruining Don's life. This was just, the penguin asserted, after Stan caused everything that led up to this.

If it weren't for those stupid tears, everything would have been just fine.

Dragging him by the arms, he ended up leaving Stan in the space before the stage. This is what he got, what he deserved. Don stomped back to his car, getting in and driving off to hopefully crash at a band member's place.

As one would expect when you're dragged around for an hour and a half, Stanley came to not too long after Don left. He looked around, confused as to how he got here.

Last thing he remembered, he'd fallen asleep in Donovan's arms, more comfortable than he'd ever been. How in the world did he end up back at the bar? He got up, noting that the blanket he'd wrapped himself in was gone. Wherever Don had gone, he probably took it with him.

Apparently, he prioritized a blanket over Stanley. Did he seriously just ditch him here? Throw him to the curb, for whatever reason? Walking through the unlocked doors, he could see no cars in the parking lot. He definitely wasn't coming back, that's for sure. 

The morning was cold, and he kinda wished that he was still cozy and still snuggled up to the other. Then, it hit him.

This was what he got for daring to be vulnerable. Of course. Of course, of course, of course. Don was just playing along, wasn't he? He never really cared, did he? All he did was leave him at his weakest point, and Stan thought that he deserved it. 

If he couldn't get the weakness beaten out of him in his early years, then maybe this would finally do it. His mother always taught him that he couldn't be a sparrow his whole life, he had to shed all of that and be a hawk. No one liked worrying about prey birds, no one liked being around a liability.

He headed back into the bar, getting up on one of the barstools, and slumping on the counter. This was what he deserved for being a scared little bird. Someone he trusted, someone he thought he might have a future with, maybe, had up and thrown him out. 

Don had abandoned him. Left him to freeze to death in an empty bar. Even though he knew he deserved it all, he couldn't help but foster some anger. How dare he? How could he just do this? Don knew that he didn't have anywhere to go. Knew that his parents had booted him out of his house, that he didn't have anywhere else to sleep, but he still just threw him to the metaphorical curb.

Threw him to the curb, if the curb was an empty bar. He cursed under his breath. So much for trust, he thought. So much for everything he thought they had. Everything they'd done before now had been some setup, some cruel prank. What other explanation was there? Don had no reason to do this. He'd insisted, again and again, that Stan would be safe at his home. Was that another joke? Another lie? 

He hopped off the stool, grabbing it and throwing it at a table, knocking off two of the chairs that had been put up on it. The noise was loud and horrible, just like him. He kicked over another stool, letting his mind run rampant. 

Don was a pecking asshole. Leaving him when he knew damn pecking well that he had nowhere else to go. Good thing that he'd made himself scarce, or Stan would have taught him a thing or two. He looked at the destruction he'd caused, the flipped stools and broken, fallen chairs, and swelled with pride. 

He wouldn't be a pecking sparrow, not ever again. Never again would he be so weak to show vulnerability. Never again would he try to be anything else than constantly on guard. Trying to get close to people only hurt him, so why would he do it again?

Way back when, that was the day when both of their worlds caved in, leaving hollow shells of the men they once were. They'd learned, from all the wrong places, that being anything less than what was expected would end up hurting them in ways that would never heal.

No one wanted a freak, and no one wanted a sparrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY IF YOU COULDN'T READ: 40 or so years ago, Grooves' parents assumed that he and the Conductor were involved after the latter slept at the former's house after getting kicked out. Grooves gets subsequently kicked out as well, and ends up blaming the Conductor for things going wrong, because in his eyes, if Cond wasn't there, things would be fine. The Conductor ends up getting dropped off by Grooves at a bar, having slept through that, and assumes that Grooves up and abandoned him. 
> 
> as per usual comments r appreciate =:)


	6. Turn The Lights Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took a wrong turn, now there's ghosts. And movies. Not a great way to spend your days off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. quarantine got to me pensive emoji  
> thought y'all could use some fun plot for once =:33
> 
> cond definitely has SOMETHING to do with those pesky fire spirits, but what...?

As expected, falling through a sinkhole onto hard ground from at least twenty feet up really hurts. If Don actually had decently long legs, they would have snapped like toothpicks. He spat blood as he struggled to get to his feet, looking around for Stan, who lay not too far away. Knees weak from the fall, he limped over.

Stan had seemingly fallen flat on his face, and Don quickly helped him up. There was a crack stretching up his beak, and it'd stained his feathers an unsettling crimson. His concern only worsened when he laid eyes upon his wounded, bloodied palms, shards of rock sticking out in places. 

Stan stirred in his arms, seemingly waking up after being knocked out from the fall. He groaned, until he realized who was holding him. He rushed to gain his bearings, tearing himself away from the other. Of course, this didn't help his wounds, and the hard shove only pushed the stone deeper into his skin. He hissed quietly. 

The lantern that Stan had taken with him up to this point was shattered on the ground, leaving the two with sparse light from the sinkhole above. The owl tried desperately to summon forth any sort of movement in the earth to get the two out, but his injuries were too extensive. He could barely lift a pebble. He huffed, collapsing to his knees as he looked back to Don. "We're not getting out of here anytime soon."

Don was trying to get a spark between his fingers, to be used as a light. "I assumed that." He muttered in response. He hadn't exactly grown proficient with his own abilities, despite having them his whole life. For whatever reason, he couldn't help but feel overwhelming dread if he dared produce even a blink of electricity, as if some horrific event was imminent. Right now was no exception.

He could feel the sweat bead on his forehead as he turned to the other bird. "Is- is there anything flammable on you? Wood?"

"Why the peck would I-"

"Do you have anything flammable on you." Don repeated flatly. 

Stan examined his person, and apparently took too long. Don grumbled, taking off his dirt-covered shirt and tying it around the nearest stalactite he could break, creating a makeshift torch. With a sharp jolt of electricity, it was set alight, allowing both of them to see further into the area they'd fallen into.

Surrounding them was a rocky clearing, with the occasional rock formation jutting from the ceiling or floor. As Don moved the torch around, he could see that this cave was much larger than first thought. Strange vine-like tendrils stretched across the length of the multiple hallways leading from where they were; they were as black as tar, and didn't dare allow the light to reflect off their surfaces.

"I'll admit-" Stan suddenly interrupted. "I wouldnae have thought to make a torch like that."

Don just nodded in acknowledgement, saying nothing.

Stan tilted his head. "What's up with ye? You're more bitter than usual."

"Falling down a massively deep sinkhole does that to you." Don continued observing his surroundings. He didn't seem too interested in conversation all of a sudden, leaving Stan to have to find some way to preoccupy himself. Being a desert owl meant he had a very good understanding of underground navigation; but he'd never seen this place before. 

Didn't help that he couldn't feel his hands. He stifled a whimper; they were bloodsoaked, and it was beginning to dry, making his feathers painful clumps of maroon. He glanced over to Don. Would he help, if Stan asked him? Or would he snap at him for being weak?

Why would he react any other way? He had no reason to be pitied. He wouldn't be made a sparrow, he decided. Hands shaking, he grabbed hold of one of the many shards of rock deep in his palm, and yanked. Unexpectedly, he squawked loudly, before quickly snapping his beak shut, cracking it further and catching Don's attention. 

Peck. 

Don sighed and walked over, as Stan curled in on himself. "I'm fine," The owl insisted, but Don shook his head.

"That squawk was the furthest thing from fine." He grabbed Stan's wrist to inspect the damage, when he felt the other tense up, struggling to not form a closed fist. Don turned to look at him in confusion. "I'm not going to rip them out, Stanley."

Stan mumbled. "How should I know? You could be winding up to punch me square in the head right now, for all I know."

"What?"

Surprised by the reaction, Stan turned away, shaking his head. "Nevermind." 

Worried, Don helped him up, slinging Stan's arm over his shoulder. Using his free hand to hold the torch, they hobbled down one of the many halls. Stan was quiet, save for the occasional 'ow'. He didn't refuse Don's help this time, but he couldn't understand why he'd even offered. Was it because Stan had got him into this mess? Did he only help out of obligation? 

But, as he relaxed and leaned into Don's side, woozy from blood loss, he wondered if it might not be. A stupid thought, maybe, but what if there was more to it? 

Maybe all the relationship talk was worth having, at least a little. 

This was a new region of the quarry's caves, somewhere he'd never been. There were formations of crystals that he didn't know the name of, nor had he seen them before. They were a deep violet, with what seemed to be patches of ice growing on them. Strange, especially for the hazy desert he lived in. 

He felt his consciousness slipping. His pace slowed as he noted how soft Don's feathers were. How comfortable he was, right now, in his arms, being dragged along by him. Exhausted, he let himself pass out.

Of course, this didn't help Don at all. Realizing the owl was fast asleep, he readjusted himself, allowing him to walk a little faster. He looked around at the hallway interior, lit up by the torch, noticing that it was now all deep brown clay rather than stone. Those strange black vines still spanned across, however. 

He wondered why Stan let him do this. He shoved him away the first time, what was so different about now? Was he trying to establish a connection? No, no, Don couldn't think like that.

Being attached meant being hurt if things went awry, which they definitely would, in Don's mind. He didn't want a repeat, so he just wouldn't make it possible. 

As he felt his legs about to possibly give out, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and started moving faster towards it. He broke into a limping sprint and eventually escaped the cavern. He gasped, out of breath, wincing as the light hit his face. He looked around, and backed up when he realized the mouth of where he'd left from looked like a massive pipe. 

Then, a voice. "You know, you should have asked to film in my forest." 

Don quickly swiveled to the source, nearly dropping Stanley in the process. Lo and behold, he was met with a sixteen foot tall, long, slender ghost, on the ground, propping his chin up with his hands like a child during storytime. 

Don briefly wondered if he'd actually passed out back there, and this was some pecked up dream. 

The figure snickered. "Oh, you don't know me, do you?" He reared up. "But I certainly know about you, oh yes."

The penguin, dwarfed in size, remained speechless, with the owl held tightly to his side.

The ghost, unamused, lost his smirk. "That's no fun. You're not being scared in the fun way, old bird." He narrowed his eyes at Stanley, and then at the burned-out torch, with Don's shirt now reduced to char. "Do I want to know what you two were doing in that pipe?"

Don's voice came out a stutter. "Where- where are we?" 

Before speaking, the ghost paused. "Oh, right. You're not from around here. Ahem." He cleared his throat and clasped his hands. "You, DJ Grooves, are in Subcon Forest. My forest. And I'll have you know that I don't have visiting hours." He squinted. "Something your friend-" He emphasized the last word in such a way that made the penguin cringe. "knows very, very well."

Guess he had to use the stage name around this guy, even on his off day. Wonderful.

Grooves sighed, collecting himself. "Look, we're not supposed to be here. We fell through a sinkhole and ended up in a cavern-"

He was interrupted. "And that involved you taking off your shirt?"

Grooves huffed. "I needed something to burn."

"Just use your hair. It'd burn longer anyways." 

"I-" Grooves groaned. He was getting fed up with this guy already. "The point is, we didn't mean to end up in your forest. All we need is the way home, and we'll be out of your… ectoplasm."

The ghost thought on that for a moment. "Hmm, I could direct you back to the desert…" An idea sparked in his mind, and a grin spread across his face. "But, I have a severe lack of entertainment here. You can only torture the same souls so much before their screams become white noise, you know."

The spirit flopped back onto the ground, chin propped up with one hand, as the other held a contract whose writing materialized as he spoke. "Let's say you and I make a deal. Bring the grandpa in on it, too. You two make me a movie, and I give you both an express ticket home instead of claiming and perpetually torturing your immortal souls! Deal?"

Grooves read over the contract, suspicious. "Why don't you just take them here and now?"

The ghost shrugged. "I hear being soulless puts a damper on the creative juices."

He looked over the contract a few more times, looking down at the Conductor every once in a while. Sure, taking contracts from a hulking spirit in a probably-cursed forest was definitely a bad idea, but what other choice did they have? They couldn't just walk back, they had zero idea where to go. 

He'd gotten them here, and he'd get them back. Taking a deep breath, he took the provided quill pen and signed.

The next few hours were a blur. The ghost thanked him, although with a sarcastic edge to it, and still didn't introduce himself, much to the writer's dismay. Both Grooves and the Conductor were tossed into a small home carved out of a stump within the forest's village, and Grooves was left to dread over the consequences of that contract as he waited for the other to wake up.

He'd just gotten them chest deep into two feet of water. He dragged his hands down his face of messy feathers as his mind ran amok. Why didn't he just refuse? Just leave? He could've waited to ask the Conductor for directions. But he didn't, and now he'd be mad. Madder than ever, absolutely infuriated by Grooves' incompetence.

He had no reason not to be. 

Sniffling, he wondered if the Conductor would up and leave him here. After all, he'd ruined everything, just because he needed to be held. 

Grooves stood, although somewhat shakily, taking a look around his new quarters. The place was barren aside from very basic necessities; a (strangely, wooden) fridge, bed, small bathroom, and a wood burning stove. On the bed were a few changes of clothes, still in those bags from the dry cleaner's. Stolen, most likely.

He tried to look for some second bedroom, but alas, no luck. There was only one bed. Sighing, he decided that he would sleep on the floor later that night. 

As he was getting a shirt out, he heard the Conductor stir, starting to wake up. He rubbed where his eyes would be, if he had any, and sat up, stretching. "Where-?" He quickly got to his feet when he realized that he wasn't in the desert anymore.

He looked around frantically, before his gaze at last locked on Grooves. "Where the peck did you take me?"

Grooves, honestly tired enough, pinched his brow and sighed. "We ended up in Subcon. Not… intentionally, mind you."

If the Conductor wasn't covered in feathers, one could have seen all the color drain from his face. He scrambled for the door, panicked enough to struggle to open it. "Do ye peckin' know what happens to owls in this place?!" He hissed. 

"Actually, I don't-"

"You… don't?" The Conductor paused, looking back at Grooves.

"No, I've never been here. Didn't even know it existed, really." Grooves shrugged.

The Conductor internally debated on if he should actually tell him that old wives' tale. He didn't even know why they were here, why should he divulge a family legend?

He took a breath. "Why are we even here in the first place?"

Grooves tensed. "About that…"

"I don't like the sound of whatever yer gonna tell me."

"I don't either," Grooves muttered. He clasped his hands, looking away sheepishly. "We're here until we make a movie for that huge ghost." He assumed the Conductor knew who he was talking about, and he was correct. 

"The- the Snatcher?" He stuttered.

Grooves tensed. "Is… that his name?"

"You got us in a pecking soul-bound contract with THE-" The Conductor paused his rant when he realized his hands were bleeding profusely, from trying to finagle with the doorknob minutes earlier. "I… think I need medical attention." He said quietly, looking up at Grooves, silently hoping that the other would help him out. 

There was a tense quiet between them. Both were expecting the other to make a move, despite both of them being the furthest from confident enough to do so. Apprehensively, Grooves took a few steps forward, with the Conductor meeting him halfway. 

Without a word exchanged, Grooves took his wrists, looking at the wounds and scarring, before turning to a tie that had been left with the clothing on the bed. He picked it up, still holding one of the Conductor's wrists with his other hand. Their eyes (well, eyes and lack thereof) didn't meet as Grooves slowly pulled out the shards of rock, deeply embedded in the other's palm. 

The Conductor tried not to wince as Grooves wrapped the tie around his hand, using it as a makeshift bandage. He did the same with the other hand, taking out the foreign rock and wrapping it up with a cut shirt sleeve. Still, nothing was said. However, for whatever reason, there was no longer any tension between them.

It was refreshing, if not a bit jarring. Hands lingered on each other, and what once was fearful, shunned silence, became warm, inviting quiet. Briefly, their gazes met, though the second it took felt like a lifetime.

The Conductor wondered what his parents would have thought. After all, their daughter never did come home.

Grooves asked himself if his family would further dissociate from him, if they knew about this.

And, for a moment, none of that mattered. For a split second, everything holding them back didn't matter. It was as if, if only temporarily, nothing was wrong, nor had it ever been. 

Of course, this moment of sudden clarity only lasted a breath, in reality. The Conductor's voice cracked as he spoke. "Thanks." He croaked.

Grooves nodded in response. "You're- you're welcome." He let go of the other's hands. "Not to make this any worse than it already is, but.. there's only one bed in here. I can just sleep on the-"

The Conductor didn't let him finish. "No, it's fine."

"Are… are you sure?" 

The Conductor nodded, a subtle rosyness in his cheeks. It was starting to get late, anyways. Better rest up, especially when they had a movie to film. That little bit of vulnerability they'd had earlier had dissipated, and they were left with the sheer awkwardness of the situation. 

However, they did end up sharing that bed. Sure, they were both so far away from each other that they were nearly falling off the sides, but it was still technically sharing. 

Subcon Forest was cold at night, to the point that, by daybreak, there would be icicles hanging from the windowsills. Maybe, just maybe, they thought, unbeknownst to each other, that they wanted to be held. 

Grooves wasn't surprised when he woke up alone, though the chill wafting through the window was certainly unwelcome. Despite being built for nigh sub zero temperatures, something about this place managed to get past millennia of penguin-cold-defense evolution, just for a little breeze.

He now understood why the Snatcher felt so at home here. Fitting. 

Grooves got up, rubbed his eyes, and stumbled outside, leaning on the doorway. He was met with at least twenty little hooded people staring at him, their faces nothing but gaping lights. Of course, Grooves was too tired to care, or even really notice. He wandered about, looking for the Conductor, generally surveying the forest's environment. The little stump house was warm and welcoming as a carved-out stump could be, a massive juxtaposition to the freezing, misty violet forest surrounding it. It was kinda beautiful, if not terrifying, considering most of the trees had nooses hanging from them.

Eventually, he spotted a familiar yellow bird behind a line of trees, golden feathers easily distinguished from the deep violet bark. Peeking through, it could be seen that the Conductor was tearing apart a bunch of paintings, smashing them with broken, small spears of stone.

Good to see he was healing, at the very least. The destruction was still concerning, though. "What're you doing…?" Grooves asked, tiredly. The Conductor jumped upon hearing his voice.

"Ah, nothing, just…" The Conductor kicked a painting. "Taking precautions." 

Grooves didn't wanna know what 'precautions' required destroying a bunch of paintings, so he just nodded and left him to continue his… work. He needed to go see about the film, anyway. He walked around, surprised that a ghost the Snatcher's size could hide so well, until he was suddenly lifted into the air, something wrapped tightly around his near nonexistent ankle.

Lo and behold, the bastard had made his presence known. "HELLOOOO THERE!" The Snatcher greeted, as Grooves squirmed in his tight grip. "Wow, you look absolutely pathetic worming around like that." He snickered. "Anyway, down to business." He tossed Grooves between his hands like a bouncy ball. "You owe me a film."

"I know that," Grooves said, his words choppy from being thrown around. "But what do you want?" 

The Snatcher thought for a moment. "You have those weird thunder powers, right?"

Grooves slowly nodded. 

"And the other manlet has the ability to control rock and stuff, right?"

Another slow, suspicious nod.

The Snatcher grinned. "Oh, that's great! You two can recreate one of those hilarious jay-owl spats!"

Grooves, of course, was completely oblivious as to what any of that meant. The Conductor, on the other hand, listening in the background, tensed, his feathers pricking.

Grooves was just about to ask the spectre to clear things up, but he continued talking. "You'll get started today. I don't care what the script is, or what you use to film, I just wanna see some bloodshed. Capiche?"

The penguin just nodded one last time, before the Snatcher, content with this arrangement, dissipated into the darkness of his forest, leaving Grooves to fall to the ground from a decent height.

Something, be it the Conductor's reaction, or the mention of possible bloodshed, told Grooves that this was going to be a long, arduous movie to shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual please comment if you can!


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